


Sweet Dreams

by WingsforWinter



Series: 30 Day Cheesy Tropes Challenge [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Caring Dean, Coma, Dreaming, Feelings Recovery, Fluff, Hospitals, Light Angst, M/M, Nurse Dean, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsforWinter/pseuds/WingsforWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel can't wake up and he doesn't know why, but there is a voice that keeps him company sometimes.</p>
<p>When he dreams, he dreams of the voice, and the man it belongs to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Part 11 of the [30 Day Cheesy Tropes Challenge](http://ghiraher.tumblr.com/post/37135733342/30-day-cheesy-tropes-challenge)
> 
> Meet in a Dream
> 
> The cheese, guys. Like aged gouda. I can't even.

 

 

 

Castiel knows that he is dreaming.

 

Or rather he knows he is not awake. The dreams come and go, as does his lucidity, but he can’t seem to wake up.

 

In his better moments he can feel his body; stiff and solid and tense, but he cannot move it. In his best moments he can hear.

 

Sometimes he can only hear vague noises. Beeping and swishing and the light scuff of feet on floors, squeaky wheels and far away voices. But other times, the very best of times, he hears the man.

 

The man’s voice is soft and deep. It rumbles sometimes, like thunder, and Castiel imagines the man has had a rough day, or a sleepless night. Other times it flows, whiskey smooth, and the sound soothes Castiel in a way he never knew how to ask for. Not that he could now, but that’s irrelevant. The voice isn’t always there, but it’s there often enough that Castiel doesn’t get the chance to worry.

 

Most of the time, Castiel just hears sound. The words escape him, but the voice breaks over him like a wave. The sound caresses him, fills him up, makes him warm. There is so much _emotion_ behind it. Without the ability to comprehend, hearing the man’s voice is like listening to an instrument playing a rich and varied solo piece just for him.

 

Other times, he can understand the words. Only a few at a time, and never for long, but he clings to them all the same. He hears bits and pieces about the weather or cars or music. Sometimes he hears the name ‘Sammy’ and wonders if that is the man’s name. He spends all of his lucid time wondering.

 

He imagines what the man might look like. A hundred different faces, a thousand. He gives the man deep skin and dark eyes. Olive skin and blonde hair. Round faces or squared jaws. Beards, scruff, stubble, clean-shaven cheeks. Wrinkles and dimples and cleft chins. Eyes of pale blue like the midday sky, or hazel like weak tea. He wonders and imagines and dreams.

 

In his dreams he is awake. He walks and talks and sees, and it doesn’t hurt as much as he thinks it should.

 

He dreams of a garden. Of soft green grass and blooming flowers and birds chirping in the trees. He watches the paths of the honeybees as they move from blossom to blossom. Sometimes there is a man flying a kite in the garden, but he never speaks to Castiel. He is not the man that Castiel hears.

 

He dreams of an ocean. Of white-crested waves beating relentlessly against the sandy shore. He watches a strange little grey fish crawl up the beach, and he hears his brother tell him not to step on it. As if Castiel would ever step on such a brave creature.

 

He dreams of flying. He soars up so high that everything is miniature, like the view he had when his class went on a field trip to the top of the Chrysler building. From up there everything looks perfect, like a painting. So far away, he cannot see the pain and anger and guilt and confusion that plague so many people in their day-to-day lives. From his seat in the clouds, earth looks peaceful. It looks like paradise.

 

He dreams of the things he was taught as a child. Of Cain and Abel. David and Goliath. Sodom and Gomorrah. Bible stories that resonated with him when his mother still tucked him to bed at night and his father still cared.

 

But most of all, he dreams of the man.

 

Sometimes they sit on a dock. The man dangles a pole into the placid lake and tells him that he used to come there as a kid. The man’s face changes, morphs and warps like a mirage.

 

Sometimes they sit on benches and watch children play at a park. Castiel tells the man about his life. He tells him his secrets and his doubts and his fears. Though it continually shifts, the man’s face is always attentive, always kind. He listens and never judges, and for that, Castiel is grateful.

 

Sometimes they are driving down an endless road. The two-lane asphalt stretches to the horizon and beyond and Castiel feels free, so free. Sometimes there is music, sometimes not, and the man never talks much in these dreams. The silence is comfortable, easy in a way that it never was when he was really awake. Castiel doesn’t have to think about what to say or how to act. The man doesn’t laugh at him if he sticks his hand out the window to play with the air currents like he did when he was a child. He smiles with crooked teeth, straight teeth. Coffee stained or blinding white.

 

Sometimes he has nightmares. In these, he dreams of hellfire and brimstone and black oily smoke that Castiel’s father used to preach about. Of demons that rip and shred and tear at the screaming souls of the sinners trapped down there. He is never afraid for himself, but he is terrified for someone else. He searches and searches, scrambling over jagged rock and burning ash, but whoever it is he is looking for, they are never there.

 

 

He doesn’t realize it at first, the change is so gradual, but he understands the man’s voice more. He hears anecdotes on gas prices and politicians and pie. The man tells him about books that he is reading and recipes he is trying and how proud he is of his little brother. Eventually Castiel deduces that ‘Sammy’ is the little brother, and he wishes he knew the man’s name.

 

With his increased lucidity, he starts to become frustrated. He doesn’t know how he became this way. He barely remembers a time before the man’s voice and the dreams, but he knows that life wasn’t always like this. He finds himself trying to move his fingers, wiggle his toes, open his eyes. He can feel the tubes in his body now, and he figures he must be in a hospital. He tries to remember how he got there, but it’s all hazy, like trying to see his reflection in a fogged mirror.

 

 

One day, for Castiel can now see the pink-orange light through his eyelids during the day, the man takes his hand as he talks. The man is halfway through a story about a girl that made him try on her underwear when he was younger when Castiel’s fingers finally twitch. It was exhausting, but he felt an overwhelming sense of pride when the man yelped and called for a doctor.

 

They immediately start doing tests. Apparently Castiel had been there long enough for them to stop, and any movement, no matter how small, was marveled at. They ask him questions and tell him to twitch his fingers, and eventually squeeze their hands if he can hear them, if he understands.

 

Sometimes he hears them, and understands, but he cannot twitch his fingers, and it makes Castiel want to cry, but he keeps trying. The man is there more now, or maybe Castiel is just aware more, but it gives him the motivation he needs to try again whenever he feels like giving up.

 

One day, he learns that the man’s name is Dean. He is arguing with a doctor that Castiel is moving out of a persistent vegetative state, so his family should be notified. He doesn’t hear what the doctor has to say, but Dean growls out a curse. He knows his family won’t be coming. He is by Castiel’s side a minute later, grasping his hand like he always does.

 

“I’m here, Cas. You're doing so good buddy, so good. You just keep on getting better.” He sounds sad, and Castiel wishes he could reach out and hug him, but he settles for squeezing his hand.

 

 

Days, and then weeks go by, and Castiel starts to make sounds. They're rough, but Dean and Dr. Moseley both tell him how amazing it is, how proud they are of him. He can turn his head and breathe on his own, though the feeding tube remains in his nose.

 

He tells himself that he is getting better, but the progress is so slow. For the first time he can remember, he cries.

 

Arms wrap around him, lifting him up from his bed. His limbs still feel like dead weight, but he clutches at the fabric his fingers come into contact with.

 

“Hey, it’s ok. It’s ok. Everyone gets a little down sometimes, Cas. You’re doing so good. You have no idea, buddy. Most people that are like you were for too long never make it back, but you are. You’re awesome, Cas. Just keep on trying, ok?” Dean’s voice is honey smooth and soothing, and when the hitching in his chest stops, Castiel’s eyes flutter open for the first time since Before.

 

His vision is blurry, but he can see tan skin and pale blue scrubs. He makes a noise, and Dean pulls back to look at him. His features are muffled, but Castiel can see spots of green. Dean’s eyes are green. He doesn’t know why he never imagined them like that before. His eyes slide shut, and he can’t get them to open, but it’s ok. Dean whispers choked praises into his hair, rocking him gently back and forth.

 

Dean has golden skin and green eyes and he will be here when Castiel can open his own again.

 

 

Six months later

 

 

“C’mon Cas. You can do it. Two more steps.” Dean has his walker just out of reach, green eyes alight with mischief, and Castiel scowls. He said two more steps fifteen steps ago, and Castiel really doesn’t want to end up on his ass again. “Aw, don’t be like that! I’ll give you a kiss as a reward.” He waggles his eyebrows.

 

“Five kisses.” Castiel growls, taking a shaky step. At least they were doing his therapy outdoors today. The garden wasn’t as beautiful as the one in his dreams, but there were flowers and birds and bees and grass, and Dean had even bought him a kite to fly once he was up to it.

 

“Three and a half.” Dean haggles back, grinning with his straight, white teeth.

 

“What’s a half?” Castiel asks. His legs wobble, and Dean shoots out a hand to steady him, pulling away before Castiel can latch on.

 

“Kiss on the cheek.” Dean states, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Castiel eyes him dubiously.

 

“ _Ten_ kisses.” Castiel takes the final step, but Dean pulls his walker away again.

 

“Nu-uh, that’s not how negotiation works!” Dean’s smile turns teasing, and Castiel huffs.

 

“Four kisses and a cheeseburger.” He concedes. Dean pretends to think a minute.

 

“Alright. You drive a hard bargain, but if you take two more steps, you’ve got a deal.”

 

Castiel takes the remaining steps, and instead of clutching the handles of the walker, he grabs Dean’s shoulders and pulls him forward for one of his kisses. One of these days he’s going to have to tell Dean that if he gets to kiss him any time he wants to anyway, it isn’t much of a reward. Except it really, really is.

 

Dean’s lips are soft and his hands are gentle as he wraps them around Castiel’s waist. His legs are trembling by the time they pull away, and it isn’t just from exertion.

 

“Ok Romeo, let’s get you that burger.” Dean chuckles, and the sound does strange things to Castiel’s insides. He blushes when Castiel leans in again and pecks his freckled cheek. “And that’s two.”

 

“No, that’s a half. You said so yourself.” Castiel grins smugly.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Lets go and see if we can’t sign you out for a couple hours. I’ll take you over to Harvelle’s for the best burger of your life. It’s about time we went on a date that didn’t include hospital Jell-O.”

 

“I like Jell-O.” Castiel teases, poking Dean in the side. The other man yelps and hops from the sidewalk onto the grass and back again.

 

While they walk back inside, Castiel studies Dean’s face. Dean used to tease him about his ‘staring thing,’ but Castiel couldn’t seem to stop. All the faces he imagined, all the different combinations of features, and he never came close to what the man actually looked like.

 

Now when he dreamed of Dean it wasn’t a twisting mirage, but full lips and a freckled nose and little crow’s feet that branched out next to mossy green eyes when he smiled.

 

Dean had an absurd rule against what he deemed ‘chick-flick moments,’ so Castiel didn’t tell him that the reason why he stared so much, why he studied Dean’s face so intently, was that his mind replicated all these little details, but reality was still so much better than his dreams.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one as a balm to my aching T&S feelings. Remind me not to re-read it again. It never ends well. 
> 
> All information about comas, persistent vegetative states and minimally conscious states came from the internets, and therefore may or may not be on the up-and-up. 
> 
> Next prompt is Arranged Marriage, so stay tuned!


End file.
